


The Wrong Side of Paradise

by the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: A rat - Freeform, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Druid Patrick, Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Patrick is adorable, Ranger Pete, Voodoo, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-13 12:05:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17487731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: Magic is extinct. Sorcerers don't exist. These two statements are, as far as Pete is concerned, facts.Tasked with exposing the dark secret of a hidden kingdom, Pete finds himself proved immeasurably wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/gifts).



> Hello friends, enemies and magical creatures, and welcome to the wonderful [@Hum My Name's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name) birthday gift! She is an amazing writer and a gorgeous human being, please go check out her stuff if you haven't already! 
> 
> So, this is vastly different from anything I've ever attempted but I've fallen totally in love with it and I can only wish that you guys like it half as much as I do - especially you, Hum - so please, let me know what you think! It's gonna be a bumpy ride...

“I have told you before - don’t try my patience,” Patrick tells Ben. He’s being a prize nuisance - it’s giving Patrick a headache. “I’m not in the mood.” 

Ben simply looks at him with blank eyes, as if he doesn’t care for Patrick’s feelings, as if he is being difficult by design. Patrick can hardly bear to hold his gaze, and shifts away, his spine grating against the concrete. 

“Do you not consider me a friend,” Patrick says quietly. He’s not sure where the tears came from but they’re streaming down his face, his eyes aching, sore. “Why must you punish me. I’ve no idea what it is I’ve done.” 

Ben says nothing. Patrick’s worst fears are realised. 

“Listen - Benjamin! Listen to me,” he says, pointing a finger towards Ben’s nonchalant face, “you’re my best friend. I have no-one but you, nobody else. Please, just - don’t turn your back on me. You’re all I’ve got.” 

Patrick sits, waits, watches. Ben doesn’t turn - instead, he continues to stare. Patrick’s no longer sure what this means. 

“I’m not in the mood for games, Ben,” Patrick sighs. “Will you let me hold you, at least?”

Ben doesn’t respond, but Patrick reaches for him anyway, taking his small body in his arms and stroking a finger across his spine. He’s hurting, inside and out, his skin burning and his bones slipped out of place, out of touch. If only Ben realised what he does to Patrick - perhaps he would stop being so cruel. 

“We must not fight,” Patrick tells him, “it’s exactly what they want. You know that I will always forgive you, don’t you?”

Ben says nothing, but Patrick can feel his agreement, the companionship between them. Patrick’s not sure what he’d do without him. Wiping his eyes - they hurt, everything hurts - he throws Ben a small smile and places him on the floor with a clink of rock against bone. 

The floor is cold under Patrick’s cheek as he lays his head down next to Ben, looking into his empty eye sockets. He wraps a gentle hand around Ben’s body, dragging the skeleton closer, Ben’s broken teeth snagging on the imperfections in the stone. A man and his rat; that’s all they are. 

Patrick hears footsteps echo through the stone halls, leather boots cracking on stray pebbles. Perhaps if Patrick can lie flat enough, stay still enough, they won’t see him, won’t grab him, won’t take him. Ben watches him, a pitiful expression on his empty face. 

“Don’t leave me,” Patrick tells him. As the cell door swings open, he squeezes his eyes shut. 

-

Pete has no idea what he was expecting. A welcome, perhaps dinner, a drink before they got down to business. But there were no gifts, no evening entertainment; just a row of increasingly disgruntled expressions and half-drawn weaponry. 

They’re beautiful, each and every one of them — they always have been. His father used to tell him of the faces of the elves, their sharp ears and sharper eyes, the way their hair flows as they move and their limbs glide as if weightless. Pete feels ogre-like in comparison. 

They sit at an oval table, its legs wound with roots and its surface spattered with leaves. Their gazes are fixed upon him — he feels a prickle over his skin as if their beetle eyes are scuttling underneath his sleeves. He’s not inclined to offer his services. 

“Wentz,” one of them says — androgynous, they rise from their place, red hair falling over their shoulders and their head adorned with an elegant crown. “You have finally arrived.” 

Pete stops in his tracks, his boots caked in leaves and his hair littered with twigs. Their well-camouflaged clearing wasn’t an easy find. “Yeah,” Pete says. “What’s the job?”

The elf’s lip curls, perhaps at his tone, perhaps at the way he bares his teeth. “The most important and the most challenging task you will ever encounter. I daresay it is beyond your talents.” 

“I daresay you’re having a laugh,” Pete replies, “how about you tell me what needs doing and I’ll name my price.” 

“A living treasure,” the elf says, their hands floating to their sides and their robes flowing. “One that will make us more powerful than ever.” 

“Who,” Pete says. “Gonna need a name.” 

“He has no name.” Their eyes glitter with a greed that keeps Pete in business. “He is but a vessel. Yet the gift that he possesses is one of great value. Retrieve him for us, and you shall have all the jewels you can carry.” 

At this, Pete’s eyebrows rise. He could buy a house of his own in some far off town, dress himself in fine clothes and bring the very best pleasurable company to his bedroom. “That’s quite an offer,” he remarks. “Where is he?”

“Aeter,” the elf says. Pete snorts. 

“Doesn’t exist.” 

They narrow their eyes. “You are misinformed. It is hidden.” 

“Yeah -  _ so  _ hidden that it’s invisible to the naked eye.” 

“Do not mock me, human,” the elf spits, “you  _ will  _ go there and you  _ will  _ fetch us what we desire.” 

“What does this thing  _ do,  _ anyway? Why do you want it?” 

The elf purses their lips. “Why do you think we are gathered here, of all places?” 

Pete looks around - the once dense canopy is deadened, skeletal, crumbling leaves gathering around the feet of the seated elves. “You needed some fresh air?” 

“Our city is dying. The sun is too hot, the earth too dry. Young and old alike are dying - we are not desert creatures. The gift will restore our crops, our livestock. It is sorely needed.” 

Pete lets out a sigh, the ground spitting dust under his boots and the sun beating down upon the back of his neck. “Fine,” he says. “ _ If  _ Aeter actually exists - I’ll get you this gift - man - thing. Whereabouts is it?” 

“In the mountain,” the elf says gravely. “In its depths. It is heavily guarded - this will be no easy feat. But - you are the best, as rumour would have it.”

“I am,” Pete says. “And I’ve never failed a task yet. I’ll need a map - and some arrows, seeing as you’re obviously not gonna feed me.” 

The elf looks unhappy with this request, but turns to speak to their council, murmuring in a language Pete’s tried to learn but can’t. 

“You shall have them,” the elf says, clasping their hands together in front of them. It’s the least composed Pete’s ever seen any elf.

“What’re you gonna do with this guy? I mean - it’s a dude, right? What happens to him?” 

“He is a necessary component,” the elf says curtly, “we shall use him as he is used in Aeter - they have kept him long enough. One life, after all, is worth a hundred thousand, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“I guess,” Pete shrugs. “So you want him alive and compliant, basically.” 

“That would be preferable.” 

“Alright. I’ll see what I can do.” 

\- 

The Elven landscape is sun-crippled, crumbling under Pete's boots as he heads for the haze of mountains in the distance. His bow hangs heavy on his back as the sweat creeps across his brow, the lines of the map engraved in his sight. He's pretty sure they're bullshitting him - Aeter hasn't been heard of in millennia, and even then it was just stories, whispers of what lay beyond the horizon. 

But elves are prone to exaggeration - a competent grasp of irrigation is probably all this magical land has, along with a population unafraid to get their fingernails grubby. He'll bring back their best farmer and pocket the cash. 

They've given him a little already - a down payment, and Pete is more than inclined to simply never return. This part of the world is not one Pete’s elated to become familiar with - he’d hoped they’d send him East, via paths he’s traced many times and faces he can call his friends. The West holds nothing of interest, only the dry elf lands and the marshes. Pete’s kind don’t settle here.

Dusk begins to melt around Pete, the stretching sky burning red as he heads for a clump of sorry-looking trees. They’ll provide adequate cover, their bone-pale branches casting skeletal shadows over the earth.

Pete must ration his supplies - his water, in particular - so he eats with restraint, polishing off the last of his bread with a small chunk of cheese and a few sips from his flask. He can’t remember the last time he saw an animal - he’ll spend the next few nights hungry.

He estimates the journey to be a week there, perhaps two weeks back if the guy puts up a fight.

Human cargo is not something Pete’s used to carrying. He’s stolen weapons and the odd animal, but specialises in gold and jewels. This guy must be pretty special if the elves are willing to give up their crowns and amulets for him - Pete just hopes he’s small enough to fit in the sack.

Night falls as Pete thinks, plans, connives. The ground is solid under Pete's shoulder when he lays down to sleep - he misses grass, leaves, the cool breeze of the forest over his skin. There's safety in the cover of the trees, but for now, Pete lies exposed, vulnerable. He's learnt not to think about it. 

\- 

"Any rooms for the night?" 

The barman looks him up and down. "Depends," he says, continuing to dry the glass in his clawed hands. "You human?" 

"What's it to you," Pete spits. It's all the same in the West - they've barely enough respect to fill a tankard. "I'll pay just the same." 

"They all say that," the barman says, rolling his eye. 

"What're you supposed to be, then," Pete says, "you're a little short for a cyclops." 

"I'm not a fucking cyclops!" the man snaps, slamming the glass down on the counter with a crack, "I'm Arimaspi, look at the damn horns." 

"Crusty," Pete hums, reaching into his bag and retrieving an Elven bracelet. "Catch." 

The barman does, his claws hooking around the jewels as his eye narrows. "Is this from an elf?" 

"Yeah," Pete nods, " _ now _ do you have a room?" 

"I'm not taking some bracelet you've nicked off an elf, they'll have my head," the barman says, pushing the bracelet away from him. 

"Don't be silly, no-one wants that on their mantelpiece. It's not stolen. It was a gift." For once, it's not a lie. 

The man hums, drumming his claws on the counter as he examines Pete and the bracelet in turn. "Why'd they give it to you?" 

"I'm doing a job for them," Pete shrugs. 

"Oh? Where."

"A town called Butt Out, dunno if you've heard of it." 

The man scowls, his fanged mouth wrinkling. "No rooms for tonight." 

Pete tuts, removing his hood and stepping forward. The bar is nearly empty, save a bored-looking goblin and a sleeping dwarf - still, Pete lowers his voice, leaning on the bar until he can hear the Arimaspi's wet eye blinking. "I'm going to Aeter." 

"Aeter?!" the barman replies, despite Pete's incessant shushing, "you've gotta be shitting me." 

"Well, that's what I said, but they insist it exists," Pete says, casting a cautious glance around the bar. The goblin hasn't looked up from his steaming pint and the dwarf is still asleep. "It's on their map." 

"Oh, it exists alright," says the barman, "and you're fucking insane for going there." 

"Why?" 

The man simply shrugs. "No-one ever comes back." 

"I'm good with a bow. I'm smart. You won't scare me," Pete hisses, but the creature simply laughs. 

"Then you're more foolish than most." 

"Will you give me a room or not?" Pete asks, shoving the bracelet back towards him and glaring. 

"Fine," the barman says. "I don't want any trouble, though. Any elves come looking for me and I'm sending 'em straight after you." 

"Fine. Oh, and I'll have a pint of bitter while you're at it." 

"Bitter?" the Arimaspi laughs, "where the fuck do you think you are? We got kykeon, ouzo, ambrosia, raki..." he gestures to the list to his left. "I suppose you'll want wine, won't you." 

"Yeah. No water, thanks." 

"Too bad, it's already diluted," the barman grins. "Welcome to the West, human." 

-

"Oh, Chiwoo," the goblin cries as Pete pounds into it - him - her - Pete's not yet learned the difference but it doesn't much matter as long as whatever it is is willing and warm. Their English isn't great - those of the far West have resisted the tide of human influence that even the elves have succumbed to. Pete's quite surprised one of them ever let him fuck them. 

They're not what Pete likes - too many claws, too hairy, too toothy - they almost take Pete's tongue out when Pete makes the mismate of trying to kiss them. "Shit, stop scratching," Pete growls between breaths, "you're tearing up my back." 

"Mwotinga?" they ask, a blank look in their eyes. Pete rolls his own and decides to lean into the pain, letting the sensation burn down his spine. They're tight - Pete's not sure what kind of hole he's fucking but it feels alright, ten times better than the Tiefling he fucked the other week, even though she was much better looking. 

"Is - is good for you?" the goblin asks, arching their back a little. 

"Yeah," Pete says, even though they've killed the mood slightly, "yeah, great." 

"You gonna -" the goblin makes a gesture with their hand. "Pulda?"

"Uh - maybe in a minute," Pete breathes. He'd be closer if they stopped talking. "Are you?" 

"Yes - now," they say. Pete's not sure if this means he should stop or go faster - he ends up mostly hovering, his cock halfway out and his orgasm chased from his as the goblin clenches and heat rushes to his belly. "Oh," is all they say.

Pete pulls out and rolls over as he catches his breath, deciding not to watch the goblin touch the streaks of Pete's come on their belly with their long fingers. 

"I never - sex - with human," the goblin says, unashamedly sticking their fingers in their mouth. It's somehow more repulsive than putting his dick in them. "Is - messy." 

"Yeah, well, I've never fucked a goblin," Pete scoffs. Not that he wouldn't do it again, of course. 

"Goblin?" they say, glancing at him with their black eyes. 

"Yeah, that's what you are, right?" 

"I am Dokkaebi," they say, their face crumpling with offence, "goblin is - cruel word." 

"Oh, whatever," Pete says with a wave of his hand, "Dokkaebi, goblin, same thing." 

"Is not," they retort, "is like - nachesang. Mongrels." 

Pete's heard those words before, and many others like them from the mouths of every species under the stars. This far from home, humans are a particular kind of vermin, their vulnerability exploited and their ignorance well-known. "Fine," Pete says, "I'm sorry. I've never fucked a Dokkaebi before." 

The goblin - Dokkaebi - nods approvingly and slides from the bed, taking their loincloth from the floor and wrapping it around their waist. 'You say you go - Aeter?" it asks. Pete rolls his eyes. 

"Yeah, and I'm not going to change my mind, no matter how terrifying you say it is." 

The Dokkaebi shrugs. "Is not terror. Is - mystery."

Pete frowns, stripping his trousers and hurling them towards his backpack. "Right," he hums. 

"They have - secret," they tell him, "and power."

"Okay," Pete says, "I'll be careful." He falls back to the sheets and watches the Dokkaebi gather their things. He doesn't think they'll steal anything, but goblins are known for being slippery, especially towards humans. "Bye."

"Good luck," they say as they walk from the room, the door clanging shut behind them. Pete rolls over, savouring the clean sheets and the soft mattress. He wants to make it to the mountains by tomorrow night - the barman tells him there's a town at the foot of Tilphossium. After that, it's two days to get over the mountains and then he's there, in Aeter. It all seems far too easy. 

Nevertheless, Pete bathes himself, scrubbing the remnants of goblin from his skin and staring, relaxed, out of the window. The mountains are stunning, lined with thousands of stars, each of the moons glowing bright over their snowy peaks. The West isn't as ugly as his own kind seem to think - there's a jagged beauty about the landscape, a dark mystery. 

-

It’s less beautiful up close. 

Pete's been stupid - he's not equipped for winds, less so for snow, soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably. Ice clings to his hair and gathers in his nose, his face numb and his fingers useless, twig-like. The night draws in and the air only grows colder. Pete can only hope the firewood he's gathered isn't too sodden to catch. 

He finds a nook, just big enough for him to huddle out of the snow, the ground dry enough and the walls smooth. He leans his head against the stone as he catches his breath, his backpack cuddled to his chest. He throws the firewood to the floor and gathers his senses - he's only got to survive the night. 

It won't catch. Pete wastes three matches attempting to start it, but the meagre pile of twigs simply sits, stubborn, on the floor in front of him. It doesn't help that his hands shake with cold, his fingers barely able to keep hold of the matches as he strikes them. Pete's never wished himself anything but human, but it's times like these that a spark of Lampad magic would go a long way. In the end, he takes out his small hip flask and sighs at it, taking a last swig of fine Eastern scotch before he tips the rest on the wood and the fire springs to life. 

The warmth on his face is like the kiss of life - chilblains tingle through his fingers but he doesn't much care now that they're not going to fall off. He takes the flask of soup from his bag and warms it as best he can, barely able to wait to fill his empty belly and savouring each lukewarm mouthful.

He sleeps fitfully, his throat stinging with the smoke of the fire and his extremities aching with the cold. Aeter better be worth it. 

-

The gates are huge. They rise like gravestones from the pathway, foreboding and impenetrable. Marble walls extend from them, no doubt circling the entire city. They clearly want to keep something out - or lock something in. 

Pete never thought he'd lay eyes on it. He'd seen pictures, drawings of the white towers and the blossoming trees, but they were fairytales, speculation. It's quite possible it's all an illusion, a trick rigged by the Western witches or the magic of the enchanted forest in the North. 

The mountain pass leads him straight to the entrance, opening out into a pebbled pathway that winds down the slope of the mountain. He didn't think it would be so easy, so obvious - why no-one goes here, he doesn't understand. But the words of the goblin echo in his head - they have a secret. There's a gnawing worry in Pete's chest that he's been incredibly, unfathomably stupid. He pushes it away. 

His clothes are still soaked, heavy with flesh-warmed water and he trudges with difficulty. At least the snow has stopped - in fact, there are no clouds over the city, just a patch of pure blue through which their sun shines, the marble illuminated by its rays. Something is at work here, Pete can feel it  - perhaps this is a city of sorcerers, of long-lost powers that the world has forgotten. 

But magic barely exists, everybody knows that. Humans and hybrids are the future - magic has been waning for many centuries. Pete shakes his head and strides on, the shadow of the gates dropping over him. 

Steps sweep up to them, gleaming in the sunlight and sullied by Pete's muddy footprints. There's no guard - perhaps it's a trap, and the ground will fall out from under Pete's feet. Perhaps he'll be shot as soon as he sets foot in this place.

He approaches the gate, close enough that he can see the golden veins in the marble, gorgeous, regal patterns that swim over the stone, glittering when they catch the light. He lifts a gloved hand and strokes it slowly across the surface - then, a section of it slides open.

“Uh -” is all Pete can say as a person pops their head out. They’re humanoid, at least, but their ears come to a point and their long fingers indicate elven descent. They stare at Pete, and Pete finds himself reaching for the dagger at his belt, ready to defend himself as the person opens their mouth and says -

“Why, hello there, welcome to Aeter,” the elf says. “Can I take your pronouns?”

“Uh…he, I guess,” Pete stumbles.

“Wonderful! Same as me,” the elf grins. “Would you like to enter, trade, or attack?”

“Um - enter?”

“Wonderful! What is your species?”

“Human,” Pete mumbles, wondering if that’ll be the answer that gets him killed.

“Wonderful! I shall open the gates.”

“Thanks,” Pete frowns, watching the elf disappear and hearing the hiss of grinding marble as the gates begin to part.

What lays beyond is like nothing Pete’s seen before. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you all for turning up again, I promise this thing is gonna get good soon. I cannot, however, promise that Pete is gonna stop fucking everything that breathes. 
> 
> Leave a comment if you like demon bats!
> 
> Enjoy!

“Something the matter, brother?” 

Pete looks up from his empty tankard and stares at the creature in front of him. Of  _ course _ it’s an oversized dwarf, of  _ course _ it has ears that Pete can only assume double as wings. This might as well be his company for the evening. 

“I don’t wanna talk,” Pete says to the ears. He wants to drink until he forgets where he is. The right ear twitches, fleshy and webbed with veins. Pete wishes it was the strangest thing he’s seen today. 

Ear-thing sits uncomfortably close, a drooping lobe brushing Pete’s arm. It’s weirdly warm. The creature clutches a cup that’s billowing smelly green steam across the table - Pete doesn’t ask for fear of sparking conversation. 

“Don’t get many humans around here,” it says. It’s voice thrums with a Western accent, croaked as if it has to force the words through its intestines before it speaks. “No judgement, of course. You  _ are _ human, right?” 

Pete nods, taking a long swig of air from his tankard. He has no desire to return the question - Ear-thing can remain nameless. 

But like the rest of the strange happy people in this strange happy town, it seems hell-bent on inflicting as much of its conversation on Pete as it possibly can. “I’m a Panotti. As you’ve probably guessed,” it laughs, flopping its ears onto the table with a dull  _ flumph _ . Pete wrinkles his nose. “You can’t be sad,” it says brightly, “that’s not how we do things here.” 

Pete scowls - he’s not sad, just mildly pissed off that he’s been told so many times to have a pleasant day that his day never actually began. Besides, how they do things here is clearly very closely aligned with how they do things in Pete’s nightmares. Pete shifts away from the squashy press of the Ear-thing’s ear and hopes it gives up. 

But of course, it moves closer. The elf at the gate had been the same, taking Pete by the hand and leading him towards the expanse of exquisite gardens and marble palaces. If Pete wasn’t so convinced he’d been slipped a large amount of opium, he’d have given the elf the smack in the mouth he surely deserves. The city is a drop of heaven soaked into the Western landscape, a honeytrap of laughter and smiles and obsessive demands for pronouns. Pete’s still sure there’s something in the beer. 

He knocks back the few drops in the bottom of his tankard - the ones reserved exclusively for the desperate or depressed - and slams it back to the table, close enough to the creature’s lolling ear that it jumps a few inches away from him. “I’m gonna get another,” he says, rising from the annoyingly comfy chair, “bye.” 

“Oh, allow me!” Ear-thing exclaims, gathering its ears from the table and grinning a smile larger than its capacity to irritate, “It’s only right to treat a traveller.” 

“No, that’s fine, I’m good,” Pete protests, but the creature has already hopped from the table and is shaking its head. 

“Please, human man,” it says, “allow me this honour. As a celebration of our new bond.” 

“Our - new bond,” Pete repeats slowly, staring at the creature’s small eyes as they twitch with excitement. “Brilliant.” 

Sarcasm is not a language widely spoken in the West, and so Pete can only watch Ear-thing scamper towards the bar, greeted by each and every patron with a raised glass and a grin. Pete’s quickly learning that he hates everyone and everything in this city. He can see why the goblin warned him. 

The streets had been the same - greetings cried from every angle, laughter bouncing off the gleaming marble like sunlight. Pete’s had a strange feeling in his gut ever since he set foot on the spotless flagstones. It’s too impeccable, too faultless. There’s no place on the planet with both sunlight so constant and foliage so green. He’s beginning to understand why the elves are so desperate to know their secret. 

Ear-thing returns with two rabid tankards, slapping them down on the table along with its ears. This time, it sits opposite Pete - this is somehow even more disconcerting. 

“Beer!” it says cheerily, taking a long glug and flashing Pete an impressive frothy moustache. “Such an odd drink.” Pete doesn’t miss the wince on its face as it swallows. 

“’S not for everyone,” Pete says, dipping his finger into his own tankard and sucking on it quickly. It tastes clean - although maybe they’re better versed in hallucinogens than Pete seeing as most of the laughing crowd seem to be on something. “You like it?” 

Ear-thing takes another tentative sip and nods a little. “It’s - distinctive.” 

Pete snorts. He’s been described as such himself. Gulping at his own beer, he feels the beginnings of that familiar buzz in the back of his skull, the one that tells him now is the perfect time to ask all those questions he couldn’t when he was sober. Even if it means cosying up to a pair of ears carrying a dwarf. “Name?” 

“Ozias, call me Oz,” Ear-thing says, “he, they, whatever.” 

“Cool. Pete,” Pete says, extending a hand. Oz looks at it for a few, slow seconds, then wiggles his ears vigorously. This probably  _ is _ the strangest thing Pete’s seen today. Pete takes his hand back to make it stop. 

“So, like,” Pete starts, folding his arms over the ornate table, “what’s going on with this place?” 

“What do you mean?” Oz asks. Pete narrows his eyes - perhaps it’s the beer, but he thinks the creature is feigning ignorance. 

“Like - why is everyone so happy?” 

“What reason do we have to be miserable?” 

Pete looks at the creature whose face is looking more like a penis with each swig of beer he takes, and laughs. “Well - okay. It’s just life, isn’t it,” Pete says. “You win some, you lose some.” 

“Not here,” Oz responds, his raw meat fingers throttling the tankard, “we all have everything we could ask for.” 

“Why, though,” Pete says, “where did all the problems go?” 

Oz’s wet, wrinkled eyes flash with something that seems utterly foreign in the laughter of the tavern. “We’ve never had any.” His curt tone makes it all the more intriguing. 

“Why?” Pete presses, “What makes it perfect?” 

When Oz shrugs, his ears flop like tipped cheesecake and a giggle bubbles from Pete’s throat. “We have plenty of food, plenty of drink, plenty of everything. Anything we ask for can be retrieved, any problem solved.” 

“So - if I wanted, like, a thousand virgins for the night, what would they say?” 

“They’d say if the virgins were willing, they shall be brought. And that you have no such stamina.” 

Pete snorts, wondering why his dick is beginning to feel like it’s missing out. “What wishes have you had come true?” 

“I like fresh olives with my morning meal. I like the water to be ice cold as soon as I turn on the taps, and, uh - oh, I like my lamps with orange light. There are some others, but I can’t remember them.” 

“Cool,” Pete says, “so like - why don’t you suffer like everyone else?” 

Pete didn’t think ears could demonstrate irritation, but Oz’s embody it with devastating accuracy, curling at the edges like burned bacon. “We do suffer. We suffer with the knowledge of the price of this life. Don’t ask me to speak of it - no-one will.” 

But Pete’s a stickler for outstaying his welcome, so he asks, “What’s the price?” 

Oz gathers his spindly eyebrows and looks around, his ears swinging. No-one is watching them and their voices are masked but the chatter. “Everyone knows. You will know, if you stay.” 

“Maybe I will,” Pete says with a smile, hoping it wasn’t quite as seductive out loud as it sounded in his head. He wonders absently if the creature fucks, and if he’s fucked a human, and if he’d like to fuck Pete. Pete tries to imagine putting his dick in such a strange mass of flesh - but all he can picture is those ears flopping around. Perhaps he’ll give this one a miss. 

“You can see the council - they’ll tell you. Show you,” Oz says. He doesn’t look like he’s up for reminiscing. Pete wonders if it’s a pile of dead bodies - it’s usually dead bodies. Kingdoms love dead bodies. 

“Could you give me a hint?” Pete asks, flashing the grin that gets him free drinks and the occasional blowjob and rivalled only by the smiles of the Southern Sirens. 

Oz purses his wrinkled lips for a few seconds, masking his pebbled teeth. “First, I think we’ll need another drink.”

-

The morning dawns far too bright and far too clear. Yet again, Pete’s misjudged how many beers he can drink before a night he can’t remember turns into a morning he’d rather forget. It can’t be a perfect world, or his head wouldn’t feel like it’s being sat on by a particularly gluttonous troll. 

His bags lie vomiting in the corner - so he managed at least to stumble into the right room - and his clothes are passed out on the floor. He’s mildly pleased with himself until he realises this means he’s naked. 

His mind tries to construct a picture of the night before with the scraps of memories it can salvage, and ends up with a few scribbled conversations and a whole lot of alcohol. Then, his foot touches something fleshy. 

He refuses to turn his head despite the badly executed somersault his stomach performs - if he stares at the sun long enough, he’ll burn his eyes out and never again have to see where he’s putting his dick. But when said fleshy something twitches, he knows it’s an ear. 

Slamming his head into the pillow doesn’t make it go away - neither does the prayer he mutters under his breath. Instead, he slithers from the sheets and towards the bathroom, keeping his eyes strictly on the doorway. He’ll leave, he decides, he’ll go for a long walk and hope Oz has the good sense to avoid Pete until the day he dies. 

“What a fine morning!” 

Pete turns to see the ear, the fucking four-foot ear that Pete put his penis inside, grinning with haunting gusto. Pete’s pretty sure all the nightmares he’s had so far in his torturously long existence have been preparing him for this precise moment. “Uh - shit,” is all Pete manages to say. 

Oz - scrotumnal Oz to whom Pete made passionate love - is looking veritably thrilled, baring his gargoyle teeth and arranging his ears in a way that he must think is attractive. Pete thinks he’s going to vomit. 

“Look - don’t get the wrong idea -“ 

“Goodness, you humans are certainly energetic, aren’t you?” the creature says, “And that thing between your legs - outstanding.” 

“Well - alright, I just -“ 

“Shall we do that again? Oh! My olives.” 

Before Pete can ask whether or not that’s a euphemism, Oz reaches for a bowl on the bedside cabinet. It’s filled with black and green olives. “Where the fuck did those come from?” Pete exclaims, “When did they arrive?!” 

Oz simply shrugs, sucking an olive into his sagging mouth. Pete’s balls crawl back inside his body. “They arrive when I want them.” 

“That’s - that’s -  _ magic _ , though,” Pete says. 

“Don’t ask me,” Oz says with a wave of his hand, “the council will tell you. In fact - I shall take you there. You deserve a romantic outing!” 

Pete winces so hard his face inverts itself and escapes into the bathroom, scrabbling for the curtains. There are none - instead, a strange white glow appears above him, suspended in a glass orb. It makes Pete’s eyes burn and he stumbles away from it, throwing his hands over his face. 

“What the fuck is that?!” He exclaims, pointing at the orb. It doesn’t seem to be following him - it just sits there, hanging like a second sun. 

“You’ve never seen a lightbulb before?” Oz asks around an olive. 

“A - no! Where’s the window or - or the lantern?”

“We did away with those a long time ago,” Oz laughs, as if any of this is funny, “now we have light bulbs.” 

“You - that’s - I need a minute,” Pete says, rubbing his hands over his face and scraping the sleep from his eyes. It dawns upon him once again that he’s naked - he wonders why all his worst moments involve his bare cock. When his vision clears, the ear in his bed is looking at him like  _ he’s _ the nutter. 

 

But the people of Aeter seem to share Oz’s opinion as Pete walks down the streets in his stained tunic and tooth-marked boots. Pete’s yet to see another human. Then again, he barely feels human himself with a head full of wasps and an ear by his side. 

Said ear is greeted with a  _ good morning _ by every single motherfucking creature that happens to lay eyes on them, each of them looking Pete up and down and asking “Who’s your new friend?” 

To all of them, Oz replies, “His name is Pete, he’s human. He’s my lover,” without a shred of mockery, and in return, Pete gives each of them a grin assembled entirely of regret. None of them pick up on it. 

They’re heading for the palace that rises from a hill beyond the houses, the smudge of flowers spilling from its windows and proud flags rippling in the wind. Pete’s not scared, never scared - but even the ground beneath his feet feels odd and Pete doesn’t trust a single gleaming smile thrown their way. 

Oz natters on about something or other as they wind their way through spotless streets, and Pete gives up protesting his light touches and encouraging smiles, letting the creature’s wrinkled fingers take his hand. If Pete’s cock weren’t so attached to him, he’d have thrown it from a bridge by now. 

As they approach the steps of the palace, Pete realises he has no plan whatsoever. Perhaps there’s a reason there’s no humans here - perhaps their blood fuels the glowing orbs in the bathrooms of ear-people. Still, Pete will think of something. He always does. 

He’s expecting something like the elven council as they step under the great archway and into the body of the building - eight to twelve gravestone figures talking in hushed voices over an oaken table - instead, he’s confronted with a cathedral full of light chatter and refreshments. It’s an aggrandised village hall at best. 

“Why hello, visitor!” 

A creature with two faces appears in front of Pete, all for of its - her - eyes trained upon Pete. 

“Hey,” Pete says, wriggling his hand from Oz’s grasp and wiping it on his trousers. 

“What is your requirement here today?” Her smile is as bright as the marble. Pete wonders if it’s as hard to crack. 

“He’d like to see a council member,” Oz nods in a hushed tone. “He’s - y’know, new.” 

“Ah,” the creature says, both her faces turning to stone. “I understand.” The creature beckons them to follow as she drifts away and another steps in her place to greet the next person unfortunate enough to set foot in here. “I trust you have not been public with this request?” 

Pete shakes his head and Oz shakes his ears. “We have been discreet, and will continue to be,” Oz says, patting Pete on the arse. Pete refrains from giving him a slap purely because the resulting ear ricochet may prove fatal. 

They pass a few separate booths, some labelled  _ Requests _ and others  _ Advice _ . Each holds a different entity with a similar grin. Pete wonders if he should be worried that they’re the only three people frowning. They continue to the far end of the hall, past a lively string quartet and through a small doorway. 

The room they step into is cramped, bare, the walls still marble but the atmosphere entirely dissimilar. When the door slides shut behind them, Pete rather wishes he hadn’t let go of Oz’s hand. 

“Human, correct?” the creature asks, her tone suggesting she already knows. She presses strange figures into the stone in front of her, then turns her two faces upon him. “Are you quite sure you are ready to view the secret?” 

“Yeah,” Pete says, rolling back his shoulders, “Yeah, I am.” 

He feels a pat on his forearm and looks down to see Oz’s wide eyes trained on him. “My darling - this is not for the faint of heart. You will never forget what you see here today, not until the day you die.” 

Pete doubts it’ll haunt him any more than fucking an ear, but nevertheless, he nods sagely. “I understand.”

The two-faced creature raises her eyebrows. “You will not speak of what you see, not even to those who have already seen. You will not lie about it, to others or to yourself. It is our truth. Think on it - then forget it. If you do not, it will destroy you.” 

“Right,” Pete says. He’d thought elves the most dramatic of all species - but Aeter never fails to surprise him. 

The marble behind their guide begins to slide open, revealing nothing but blackness. Pete doesn’t see the figure until the darkness shapes itself into a foot, and then a leg, and then a wing, the creature pushing itself out of the cave and into the light. Pete takes a small step back - it’s a Camazotz. Pete never thought he’d live to see one in the flesh. 

It’s twice Pete’s size and snarling, its razor teeth hanging over its furred jaw. Leathered wings brush against the unsculpted stone behind it, its clawed feet grinding against the floor. It’s one of the only creatures Pete has no desire to fuck.

It doesn’t speak. It simply beckons Pete with a crooked, razor-sharp finger and blinks its beetle-like eyes. Oz steps away from him, and Pete’s left to face the creature alone. He wishes he’d brought his dagger. 

The creature’s claws hangs in the air between them, offered like a gauntlet. There’s nothing Pete can do but step towards it, and claws soon sink between the bones of his shoulder. 

Pete had always pictured dying either at the hands of a vengeful lover or of dysentry after a month of non-stop feasting and copulation - instead it seems he’ll be eaten by an eight-foot bat. The door closes behind him and he’s pushed through the darkness, stumbling down the steps as the grating of claws scuttles across the back of Pete’s neck.

“I am guardian of the secret,” it growls in the voice featured in Pete’s childhood nightmares. 

“Okay,” Pete says, “Good hours?”

“I get every fourth day off,” it snarls, a claw dug into Pete’s back. “Walk faster, human.” 

“Sorry - the terror is slowing me down,” Pete replies, peering into the darkness and placing his feet carefully. 

“No terror,” the creature says, “only suffering.” 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Pete says brightly, “that’s  _ much _ -“ 

A piercing scream rings around the tunnels, sharp as broken glass and brighter than the sun. 

“What was that,” Pete blurts, his whisper whistling in the wake of the cry. 

“The secret,” the demon bat says, “it is awake.” 

“Great,” Pete hums, “is that a good thing, or-“

“Listen to it,” the creature hisses, “listen, and then forget.” 

Pete does as Satan’s minion tells him, clamping his mouth shut and wishing he was blessed with Oz’s ears. The remnants of the first scream still linger in the organs of the rock. When another sounds, Pete feels it in his blood. 

The path ventures lower and lower, cold beginning to seep through the air and damp crawling into Pete’s lungs. Whatever’s down here, someone wants to keep it locked away. The elves had said it was a man - but Pete’s never known a man to need two hundred feet of stone between him and civilisation. 

Another scream sounds. Pete can hear it clearly now - it’s not a sound made in fear or pain, but in madness. Pete wonders once again if a suitcase full of elf bling is worth a private tour of hell. 

The path suddenly evens out, leaving Pete stumbling over his own feet and steadying himself on the jagged walls. Lightbulbs blaze from the ceiling, casting iron shadows over the tunnel around them. A ribcage of bars stands at the far end - when the next scream sounds, it cuts straight to Pete’s heart. 

The creature says nothing, simply pointing to the bars. Pete can barely stand to look, but stares anyway, eyes bound to the twitches of movement from behind the bars. 

Pete was right about the body - but ends up wishing he was right about the death. Whatever pitiful creature it is, it’s writhing with pain, its white form twisting unnaturally and its limbs flailing. Cords are attached to its wrists which glow with the same light as the orbs above them. Pete begins to grasp exactly what’s going on in this freakish fantasy land. 

“What is it?” Pete whispers. 

“It is fuel,” the creature says, pushing Pete closer to the bars. The body looks painfully thin, painfully  _ human _ . “It knows not what it was.” The creature opens the cell door with a squeal of metal against stone and steps inside, beckoning for Pete to follow. 

“I - I can see fine from out here.” 

“Look closer.” It’s an order, if the darkness in the demon bat’s eyes is anything to go by. If the circumstances were different, it might turn Pete on. 

But when Pete steps closer, he sees the way the thing - man - is contorted with pain, his eyes rolling wildly. He sees the web of veins pulled taut in the man’s wrists, the fractals of metallic rope sapping the life out of him. He screams once more, a broken, torturous sound, and Pete wishes he were deaf. 

“What are you doing to him,” Pete asks. “Won’t he die?”

“He is neither dead nor living.” 

“Does it ever stop?”

“We let him sleep,” the creature says as a crazed laugh slips from the open mouth of the man. 

“And - this is all he does?” Pete asks, taking a step back as the man’s gnarled hand reaches towards him. “You just - use him?” 

“It had been this way for centuries.” 

Pete looks upon the man once more. He seems so small in the shadow of the great guard - he’s filthy and skeletal, difficult to look at. “Is it worth it?” Watching the way the man distorts himself, Pete can’t think how it could be. 

“The suffering of one for the prosperity of thousands? Yes, I would say so.” 

“Okay - I think I’m done here,” Pete says softly, backing towards the door. The man laughs again, his face contorted with the strain. 

With a claw to Pete’s shoulder, the creature guides him from the cell, its hot breath rushing down Pete’s neck. It locks the door behind them - a simple padlock, easily broken - and shoves Pete back towards the stairs. 

Tearing his mind from the screams of the man, Pete thinks on his task. He’s located the treasure, he knows how to get to it - now all he’s got to do is work out how to get round the towering demon bat that guards it.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! It's been a little while, hasn't it? But I've finally stopped procrastinating now so have a chapter of this strange story. Thank you for all your vastly different opinions on Oz - he's hit every category in fuck, marry, kill and some in between. Let me know what you think of a certain someone who will be appearing in this chapter - although bear in mind that he's my sweet baby wonder child so go easy. 
> 
> I hope he'll grow to be your sweet baby wonder child too! Enjoy! xx

Pete has found himself with an extra ear. It won’t leave him alone - it’s enveloped him in its fleshy prison and is currently feeding him olives with an adoring expression in its slimy eyes. 

“My darling,” it says. Each time the phrase falls from the creature’s wrinkled lips, Pete’s cock shrivels a little more. “You must be very shaken. Maybe I can relieve some of your stress?” Oz’s hand creeps towards Pete thigh, and Pete’s testicles join his dick in crowding back inside his body. 

“Actually - I’m good,” Pete says around an olive. “Kinda tired.” 

“Oh, but my love, last night was a triumph! We must perform that naked dance again, don’t you think?” Oz’s eyes wrinkle with hope. 

Perhaps Pete should run a mile and never return, especially after Oz uttered the phrase  _ naked dance _ , but Pete’s rather enjoying the olives and he’s always been a sucker for attention. “Well - like, with humans,” Pete chews, “you gotta wait thirty-six hours for it to recharge.” He swallows loudly. “Or it won’t work.” 

“Oh,” Oz hums, his eyes darting to Pete’s underwear and his fingers curling, “how fascinating. Don’t worry - it’ll be all the better tomorrow morning, won’t it.” 

“Certainly will,” Pete says emphatically - because by tomorrow morning he’ll be halfway across the map and never have to touch a walking ear ever again. “Got any more olives?” 

The creature nods with delight and places a plump, wet olive in Pete’s mouth, his fingers lingering on Pete’s tongue. It’s far more repulsive than it sounds. Pete makes a mental note to swill his mouth out with acid. 

“What would happen,” Pete garbles, pushing Oz’s glistening fingers back towards him, “if the magic dude was taken away from the city?” 

Oz’s ears droop with alarming agility. “Please, don’t speak of it. I don’t want to remember.” 

Pete frowns. It seems so unfair not to dwell, not to think about the man whose life was stolen so that they can eat olives in bed at four o’clock in the afternoon. Pete wants to hurt, to taste the sour guilt in the olives - but they remain succulent and ripe. Perhaps ignorance is the only way to stay sane - then again, sanity doesn’t seem to be this city’s foremost quality. 

Kissing the creature is like sucking on a mushroom - in fact, there’s something fungal about Oz as a whole. Pete tries not to think about it. Only a few more hours draped in lobes, after all. 

As the light fades, he slowly packs his bag, slipping clothes into the pockets during the precious few moments he has to himself. He leaves his bow within reach of the bed - he doesn’t suppose he’d kill Oz if he got in the way, but Pete can’t deny that a light maiming would give him some satisfaction. Those ears could do with a piercing or two. 

The possibility of maiming increases with each minute Pete lies awake in the dark with the creature on his chest, gnarled hands grasping at his sides and both weighty ears lolling over Pete’s body. There’s a strong chance he won’t be able to move at all, and will instead be stuck in this fleshy tomb until he gnaws through his own arteries. Each time he assumes Oz has fallen asleep, the creature’s face twitches and his hands grasp Pete tighter. By the end of the night, Pete’s ribcage will be nothing but dust. 

After what seems like hours in Oz’s skin prison, Pete thinks - prays - that he’s asleep. He doesn’t grope Pete’s arse when Pete shifts away, and his greying eyes don’t probe Pete through the darkness. Pete’s never savoured the chill of the floor beneath his feet so readily. Oz’s ears wobble like panna cotta when Pete rises from the bed. 

He creeps across the room with the grace of an elf and sweeps his bag and bow from the floor. The bag rustles and the bow creaks - he stills, watching the pile of flesh in his bed carefully. No movement. 

Turning on the light is too risky  - and still freaks Pete out a little, anyway - so he pads across the room in the dark, fumbling for the door handle. This is the moment when his frying pan chooses to detach itself from his pack and fall, in excruciating slow motion, towards the floorboards. 

But by the time the clang bounces around the bedroom, Pete’s already gone.

-

The city is much the same in the dark. The sky is clear, cloudless, their moons beating overhead. Pete thinks he can make out the city hall in the distance, the pillars struck with silver light. 

There’s a surprising - and annoying - amount of people around. Pete thinks he sees a centaur clad in pure gold, its hooves echoing over the marble, and a goblin scampering towards the flowerbeds. He’d fuck either one of them sooner than he’d go back to Oz. He tries to walk as innocently as possible, his bow clutched loosely at his side as if to say  _ no,  _ he’ll not be doing any maiming tonight, not at all. Who’s to say he didn’t wish for a bow? 

Pete finds that if he wears a wide smile on his face and turns it upon everyone he passes, he can avoid any second glances. For all they know, he’s on his way to wish for infinite earrings to give to his floppy lover. His dagger sits tight in his belt. 

As far as he could tell from his brief visit to Hades’ bowels, the bars of the prison are rusted and weak, the bonds mere rope. They are restraints for an entity that no longer needs restraining - a prisoner who is all but dead. The again, it might work in Pete’s favour if the man isn’t too lucid - there’s nothing worse than a screamer when he’s trying to be discrete. 

The city hall is ghost-like in the twilight, its shadow falling over Pete as he approaches. Perhaps they’re closed - perhaps the one thing no-one can wish for is a night shift - but as soon as he mounts the steps, a dwarf blocks his path. 

“Good evening. How may I help you?” 

Pete’s brain scrambles for an answer that will buy him a few precious seconds to think, so he simply says, “Uh - it’s kind of, sensitive. Can we go somewhere more private? Like - inside the hall?” 

“Oh - of course,” the dwarf says, “I can promise my discretion. Please - follow me.” 

Pete does so, his plan shaking on weak foundations. Maybe he needs to see the bat creature about an urgent family matter. Or, since he himself does not bear any resemblance to the bat creature, he needs to see it about an issue with their shared fence. He needs to deliver a special parcel. He needs to -

“I need to see the - uh,” Pete scrambles, “cama - cama -” 

“Camazotz?” the dwarf kindly finishes, his eyes lighting, “you’re the human, yes? We’ve been expecting you.” 

“Uh - yeah,” Pete says with caution. He hopes the bat thing doesn’t have a penchant for fleshy takeout. 

“Just what he wished for,’ the dwarf says. “I’ll take you to him - he’s been waiting all evening.” 

“Has he,” Pete says, mentally grinding his sense of control to a pulp. If he’s eaten, he’s blaming Oz entirely. 

The dwarf leads him across the hall where the advisors still sit with broad smiles across stretched faces. One of them gives Pete a wink. This is a terrifying development.

“Just to confirm,” Pete trills, “what exactly did - did he ask for?” 

“He expects you to stay the night, if that’s what you’re asking,” the dwarf says. Pete’s brain vomits. Breathing becomes much more difficult when faced with the prospect of being fucked by a seven foot bat. 

“Ah. Of course,” Pete says, dropping behind the dwarf so his terror isn’t quite so visible. The marble room seems half the size once he steps into it, the walls closing towards him and the sliding door rushing at him. Pete’s bladder doesn’t appreciate the turn of events one bit. Pete wonders if the beast has a piss kink - if so, he’s in for a fruitful night. 

When the stone scrapes open once again, the Camazotz stands ready and waiting, its black eyes squinting directly at Pete. Pete doesn’t dare chance a glance at the creature’s cock - he needs to know as little as possible about the weapon that will finally kill him. 

“You,” the creature says, lifting a clawed finger, “I know you.” 

“Uh - yeah. I came to see you yesterday because - I like to know who I’m working for. But you were, y’know, hot, so it’s cool.” 

The creature bares its teeth in what Pete hopes is a smile, and beckons Pete towards him. The lust in those black eyes is sickening. Pete waves goodbye to the grinning dwarf and his own dignity. 

“What’s with the bow,” the bat snarls. Pete clutches it close to his side. 

“I thought we could do some role play,” he tries, “like, me as a lithe woodland elf and you as a - a big - thing,” he finishes, his gaze rising hopefully towards the creature’s. 

“Huh,” the bat growls. Or perhaps it’s  _ hot _ . Pete’s yet to become accustomed to the perpetual snarl of the creature’s voice and he has no desire to. 

Pete follows him down the passage, desperately trying not to think of his own passage and the ordeal it’s about to endure. He begins to realise he must invent a new plan - he’s nobody’s gigolo. “Uh - I was thinking,” Pete starts, “that you could show me the prisoner? You know, while we’re down here.” 

The creature stops dead, the claws at the small of Pete’s back dropping away. “Why.” 

“Because - like - I love being watched,” Pete blurts. “Like - it’s kind of exciting, isn’t it?” 

“Is it?” the creature says, and Pete sees his master plan slowly crumble into the dust beneath their feet. He’ll be found out an moment - and fucked all the harder as a result. 

“Yeah - show him what you do to humans like him.” 

“Oh, he is not human,” the creature says, and Pete prepares to be turned to a mangled fuckhole, “but - you humans always puzzle me. Perhaps you are right.” 

Pete’s never been so pleased at the prospect of voyeurism. The walk to the prisoner’s chambers will buy him a little more time, at least. The monster claws at his ass and his asshole quivers between his cheeks. This is a far more risky game than he usually plays. 

His brain whirs furiously as they wind lower into the mountain - soon the hum of the kingdom is lost and only their footsteps can be heard among the rustle of creature’s wings. That’s when it hits Pete - this thing is a  _ bat.  _ Bats are notoriously shit at seeing. Lust may not be the only reason it keeps a claw on Pete’s body at all times. 

Instead of turning towards the glowing table, they take a narrow staircase even deeper into the mountain. The screams don’t come this time - the man must be asleep. Pete feels a relief that isn’t entirely selfish. He wonders how long it’s been since the man saw the light of day, since he ate a full meal, since he heard anything but bat-like growls. Then Pete remembers that he plans on throwing the man in a sack and dumping him at the feet of the elves, and shakes himself of all compassion. In reality, he hopes the man is skeletal enough to lift smoothly, weak enough to come quietly. A job - that’s all this man is. 

As it turns out, all of Pete’s hopes are painfully true. The cell in which the man sleeps is bare, coffin-sized, and he lies as if he’s already half-rotten, his ribs catching the dim light through stretched skin. The creature lets Pete stare, lets him watch the shoulders on which their kingdom rests rise and fall with rattling breaths. Pete looks until he’s never been so sure of the right path in his life. 

He darts away from the bars and grabs the bow from his back, dancing towards the wall and reaching for an arrow. The bat stops dead. Its claws grope for Pete, and meet only the rattle of metal; its small eyes squint around the corridor. Pete holds his breath. 

“Human?” it calls, its large ears twitching, “Where have you gone?” 

Pete muscles are pulled taut as his bow string. A creak of bone or a twitch of his vice-tight throat will give him away. The creature growls, pacing around the corridor with grinding footsteps, claws swiping at thin air. Pete can only pray he’s quick enough. 

The arrow whistles through the air - but by the time the creature whips around, ears raised, it’s too late. It roars with pain as the arrow plunges into its thigh, and the mountain seems to shake with the force. Pete’s guilt is eclipsed by his relief as the creature thunders to the ground and takes its soul-destroying cock with it. He shoulders his bow and runs. 

The padlock on the door is not quite as rusted as Pete first hoped - he rams the hilt of his dagger into it several times, breaking nothing but his own tendons until he gives up and turns to the writhing form of the bat beside him. The keys shine at its belt. 

“Sorry, buddy,” Pete says as he leans to snatch the keys, “but you gotta know this ain’t right.” 

“May the heavens smite you!” the bat screeches, swiping a large claw at Pete and narrowly missing Pete’s favourite eyeball, “Human!” 

Pete scuttles away from the creature and shoves the key into the lock. The door judders open and the prize lays exposed and unguarded. Pete can’t wait for payday. 

But the man doesn’t stir, even as Pete stomps towards him, flanked by the earth-rattling bawls of the bat and the clang of the bars. Perhaps the man really is just a corpse, used as if he were still living. Nevertheless, Pete grabs the sack from his bag and spreads it out in his hands. 

“Oi,” he says to the man, “hey, buddy, wake up.” 

The man shifts a little, but his gaunt face doesn’t move. Pete crawls closer, touching a hand to the man’s shoulder. He’s ice cold. 

“Buddy. Come on.” 

His body is like a doll’s, his limbs lolling from side to side as Pete shakes him. Pete decides he doesn’t have time for this, and grabs the man by the waist, slinging him over his shoulder and marching from the cell. 

The man clearly knows precisely how best in inconvenience Pete, and promptly begins to rain merry hell upon Pete’s spine with his fists. “I’ve been lifted, Ben!” he shrieks right in Pete’s ear, “Ben! It’s happening!  _ Ben! _ ”  

Pete has no idea who Ben is and he doesn’t much care as he makes for the staircase at the end of the corridor, scooping his bag from the ground. “Quieten down,” Pete hisses, giving the man a sharp shake, “or I’ll maim you too.” 

“He seeks to maim, Ben!” the man shouts at the top of his hoarse lungs, “He seeks to maim!”

“Shut up!” Pete yells in response, tightening his grip on the man’s flailing feet. “Seriously, quit screaming!” 

“Don’t tell me what to - excuse me, mister -- man, where are we - where is Ben?”  

“ _ Who  _ is Ben,” Pete exclaims, “your handler?” 

“Ben!” the man continues to screech, and Pete fights hard to resist the urge to smack his head into the wall, “Ben! No, you cannot take me from him! Ben!” He kicks harder than ever, landing the ball of his foot right in Pete’s gut and the next thing Pete knows, the man is furiously slapping Pete’s head. 

“For fuck’s sake!” Pete finally yells, “fine!” He pries the man off his face and drops him to the floor with a soft  _ flumph  _ and an accompanying squeal. “Who the fuck is Ben? Where is he?” 

“My friend! My greatest friend!” the man laments, propping himself up on his elbows in the dirt, “I shall die of sorrow without him!” 

“Bloody hell,” Pete says, regarding the man with utter bewilderment. “Look - if I find Ben, will you get in the sack?” 

“Why -  _ sir,  _ we have only just met,” the man says, his eyes tracking over Pete’s body. “I should like a glass of wine, first.” 

“What? Listen - get in this bag,” Pete drops it in front of him, “and I’ll get Ben.”

“He’s in the lounge,” the man says, “and I shall dine with you if you fetch him.” 

“Whatever,” Pete sighs, kicking the bad towards the man and jogging back towards the writhing bat. “Me again,” he informs the creature, peering into the cell. There’s no-one there. Ben must be a figment of the crazy bugger’s imagination. Unless - there’s a rat skeleton in the place the man lay, its tiny bones connected by tinier threads. Pete pulls a face. 

The skeleton creaks as Pete picks it up, the ribs tinkling like windchimes and the skull hanging heavy by its string. The man really  _ is _ a crazy bugger. Pete tries not to touch the bones as he stands and carries it from the cell. 

“Is this -” 

“Ben!” the man calls happily, and Pete sees that he’s climbed into the sack and only his grinning face is poking out. Pete holds the skeleton at arms’ length and hurries towards the man, who wriggles in anticipation. As soon as he’s close enough, Pete grabs the hem of the sack and drops the skeleton in the man’s lap, wiping his hands on his trousers. 

“Thank goodness!” the man exclaims, “Ben - you’ll never guess what I’ve -”

Pete draws the bag tight over the man’s head and his babbling sinks to muffled noises, a tuft of red-blond hair poking from the top of the bag. Pete’s sigh of relief is short-lived - the man simply raises his voice and resumes his incessant drivel. Hefting the bag over his shoulder, Pete makes for the stairs, making sure to thwack the bag against each corner he comes across. It does nothing to silence the man. 

“- all very exciting, I wonder where we’re going for tea? Does the milkman know we’re coming? Will the man make flan? Can the man plan flan?” Cheerful laughter bursts from the bag, promptly interrupted by more garbage. It’s one of the longest walks of Pete’s life. 

When they near the top of the steps, Pete slows. The door is shut, with no sign of a handle. Pete supposes it’s guarded, probably by the dwarf. Said dwarf may have heard the bagged lunatic already. Said lunatic is on his way to a black eye. 

“I  _ can  _ dance, Ben, I’ve told you, look…” A foot drives into Pete’s kidney and he almost buckles, struggling to keep ahold of the wiggling bag. He’s beginning to understand why this man was kept so far underground. 

“Look - dude,” Pete hisses, “be quiet. If you wanna get out of here you have to shut up, okay?” 

“My  _ name,  _ good sir, is Pinecone,” the bag snaps. “No, that’s not it. What was it. Pine - Pinecone - Parsnip. Parsley. Pie. I think it’s Pie, Ben. What do you mean, I’m wrong? It’s  _ my  _ name! Look, I’m sorry. My name is - I still think Pie. No,  _ you’re - _ ”

“Shut up!” Pete finally shouts, giving the bag a slap. “Shut the fuck up, for crying out loud!”

The man goes quiet for a few, blissful seconds before he begins to snigger softly. Pete rolls his eyes and shifts the giggling bag from one shoulder to the other. 

In front of him, the door stands firm. Pete figures there must be a way to open it from the inside, and touches his fingers to the stone, tracing the intricate markings. When he presses his palm against it, nothing begins to glow. He smacks the stone - still nothing. 

“He can’t open it, Ben,” the man sniggers, “I wonder how he got in? I don’t remember. The milkman. The milkman!” 

“Shut  _ up _ !” Pete yells once more, and his voice echoes around the small corridor. 

“Is everything alright, sir?” A voice sounds from the other side of the stone. 

Pete coughs, bringing up as much phlegm as he can muster and assuming the identity of a seven foot flying rodent. “Uh - I need a little help.” 

There’s a short stretch of silence during which Pete regrets each and every choice he’s made leading up to this moment, but when the dwarf calls back his affirmation, Pete realises he’s the greatest creature on earth. The door slides open with a grating croak not unlike the man’s voice. 

The dwarf gets a sharp crack to the head when the doorway reveals him and he falls like a stack of pebbles to the marble floor. Pete steps over him easily. 

He does his best to act natural as he strides back into the great hall, but no-one seems to take much notice of him anyway, their smiles fixated on whatever unfortunate creature happens to stand in front of them. Those who do raise their eyebrows get a sunny grin and a heartfelt  _ good evening _ . Nice people are far too easy to take advantage of. 

The open doors blow a warm breeze across Pete’s face - he’s giddy with it, confidence surging through him. It was so easy - all he had to do was risk his asshole and touch a dead rat. Of course, when he tells the elves, it’ll be different. He’ll have fought bare-knuckled with a troll, crawled through tunnels of broken bones, put his life and limbs on the line for this magnificent prize. Said prize has begun to whistle enthusiastically. It rather adds to the mood. 

What Pete doesn’t expect is to look out at the moonlit landscape, gaze upon the path of gilded marble and see the ear of nightmares wearing a face like a foot. 

“Pete! Where did you go?” Oz cries. 

“The milkman!” the sack replies, and Pete drives an elbow into what he hopes is the man’s head. 

“What’s in the bag?” Oz says, hurt cracking his voice. “Pete, what are you doing? Who  _ are _ you?” 

He’s making a scene. People are staring, creeping towards them. Pete winces - somehow he knew the ear would end up blowing more than just his cock and he wishes he could slap the sloppy skin right off the creature. He looks around. There’s a goblin, two kappas and a gnome. Pete can outrun all of them. 

And so he does. It gives him great pleasure to smack the ear firmly in the lobe as he bolts out of the doors, the warm print of flesh on his knuckles the last he’ll know of Oz. He runs as fast as he can with an extra person on his back, careering down the marble path and with adrenaline as bright as the moonlight surging through his veins. 

He heads for the city walls. Each aspect of this plan was a gamble, but the orchard had caught his eye yesterday when he’d seen that most of the trees surpassed the height of the wall. He’s a genius - he’s got it all figured out. 

There’s no fence, no guards - why would there be in a city of perfection? - and he sprints into the shadow of the trees, casting a glance behind him at his pursuers. There’s no-one to be seen, nothing to be heard except the sound of his own breathing. He dives under branches and crunches over the leaves until he reaches the tree nearest the mighty wall. 

Climbing is far more difficult with a rat and a lunatic in tow, but the fear of being caught propels Pete higher and higher. He hauls the bag from branch to branch, the bark grazing his palms and stray twigs jabbing sharply into his face. He barely notices. 

The bag squeaks and squirms as he drags it through the tree, at last resting it on the final branch Pete trusts to take their weight. It extends some distance towards the wall, and Pete shuffles along it, pushing through clumps of leaves until the shining top of the wall is revealed. 

Pete now has several options. He could hope the branch holds and continue shuffling, bag in hand, until he can step onto the wall. He could jump with the bag and hope he makes it. Both of these involve a little too much blind luck. When the bag begins to cackle maniacally, Pete decision becomes a whole lot easier. 

He steadies his footing on the branch and lifts the bag onto his shoulder, struggling to keep his balance. Then, he swings the bag from his bag and lets go, watching it sail over the gap and land with a thump on top of the wall. Pete gives himself a curt nod at his handiwork, then leaps across the gap himself, eager to learn what lies beyond the wall and whether he can land on it without breaking anything. 

Luck is certainly on their side - a carpet of soft, green grass is spread beneath them, and Pete wastes no time in shoving the bag from the wall and listening to the man’s surprised  _ ooh  _ followed by a yelp when he hits the ground. Pete follows swiftly after, throwing himself from the wall and dropping into a forward roll as he lands. The bag whimpers beside him. 

“You good?” Pete asks, nudging it with his foot. 

“Ow,” the man replies. It’s confirmation enough for Pete, and he grabs the bag and begins to run into the thicket of trees beyond. The more ground he can put between him and the city, the better. 

-

He jogs until he can barely stand, his calves aching and his knees turning to dust. Someone must be following them - they’ll soon realise that their treasure is missing - but Pete’s fairly sure he’ll drop dead if he goes any further and the bag on his shoulder has gone disconcertingly quiet. He decides they can afford a few hours rest. 

Pete can’t see the mountains from here, can’t seek out some hidden cave where they can hide, so the bushes will have to do. He sets the bag down and begins to hack to the centre of the vegetation, clearing a space big enough for both of them. A fire is too risky, but there’s blankets in his bag and some olives he stole from Oz. He arranges the blankets underneath him and drags the sack into the bushes, then sits back and enjoys the silence. 

But after a few moments, it becomes too much - he can’t help but worry that the man has dropped dead, it seems the only feasible reason for his silence. He scrabbles for the bag and yanks it open. The man’s eyes are closed and he’s curled into a ball. Pete pokes a finger into his face. 

“Hey - buddy. You awake?” 

The man’s eyes flicker open and he stirs, shifting himself out of the bag and letting Pete pull it from under him. Then, he lays still once again. He looks ill, gaunt, his eyes sunken and his skin pale as death. 

“You okay?” Pete asks, patting the man’s shoulder. His bony hands twitch where they lie and his lips move in soundless speech. Even in sleep, he won’t shut up. 

Pete watches him for a few moments, wondering why exactly this feeble being was so treasured. He seems nothing more than a man, naked and vulnerable. Pete tries not to stare between his legs, but it’s been a long time since he’s seen another human body. He wonders if the man has any notion of modesty, or if it’s simply Pete’s own embarrassment that drives him to search for something to lay over the man’s skeletal body. There’s scars on his twitching wrists and ankles -  Pete tries not to think on what they might have done to him. 

Pete has only one cloak, and a precious one at that, durable and artfully woven, but he drapes it over the man without hesitation, tucking it around his shoulders. The man’s fingers still twitch as if reaching for something - then, Pete remembers the rat. 

He cringes as he feels inside the bag and touches the rattle of a skeleton. His fingertips find the delicate thread of the spine and lifts it out, lowering it towards the man. 

“Here’s your - uh, friend,” Pete says awkwardly, setting the bones down next to the man’s hands. His fingers wrap gently around the tail and he lets out a small sigh, his shoulders relaxing. Pete returns to his seat, trying not to let the man’s quiet mutterings disturb him. 

“Patrick,” the man says all of a sudden, his eyes opening and fixing themselves to Pete. “That was my name. Patrick.” 

Pete nods, chewing slowly on an olive. “Cool. Nice to meet you, Patrick.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be updated every two weeks, cycling with my pirate one, so hopefully see you in a fortnight? Thanks for reading, and happy birthday Hum!


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